


his bones are coral made

by mittagsfrau



Series: Hydra Husbands AUs [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Character Death, Forced Marriage, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Fanaticism, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Theocracy, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25800697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mittagsfrau/pseuds/mittagsfrau
Summary: The sky is vast and so is the sliver of the sea he can see from his small, barred window. His hands clutch at the wrought iron bars until his palms hurt. He welcomes the pain, it keeps the longing away, the longing to leap from the tower like a bird and fly to the freedom only death can bring.He has grown old in his exile. The days of his youth seem so far away like the isles he can’t see behind the horizon. He knows that they are there and exist but they are too far away. He is still strong, strong enough for the back breaking work they demand from him. It’s a never ending punishment, working in fields where the soil is mostly rocks and the fruits of his labor stay small and bitter.
Relationships: Brock Rumlow/Original Male Character(s), Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Series: Hydra Husbands AUs [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871758
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. the tower at the sea

The sky is vast and so is the sliver of the sea he can see from his small, barred window. His hands clutch at the wrought iron bars until his palms hurt. He welcomes the pain, it keeps the longing away, the longing to leap from the tower like a bird and fly to the freedom only death can bring.

He has grown old in his exile. The days of his youth seem so far away like the isles he can’t see behind the horizon. He knows that they are there and exist but they are too far away. He is still strong, strong enough for the back breaking work they demand from him. It’s a never ending punishment, working in fields where the soil is mostly rocks and the fruits of his labor stay small and bitter.

Some years ago his bones had started to ache at night, keeping him from restful sleep like another agony they inflict on him. Often the skin of his back is hot and tight from the lashings. He can’t see it, hasn’t seen a mirror in decades but he knows his back has to look like a field plowed by a drunk farmer by now. Whatever they inflict on him doesn’t change anything. Pain is only on the surface. The inner reaches of his soul are still tainted and now he believes they always will be.

He lies down on the narrow cot in his cell. The room is small, just a square long and broad enough to fit his body if he chose to lay on the ground. He shifts on the hard bed. Lying on his still bleeding back is out of question and he can’t lie on his front. They despise and fear his sin in equal measures. So they locked the root of his sin away in a cage. After all those years he’s used to it by now but his rebellious flesh tends to wake him during the night and every morning, stirring like an animal and the spikes lining the unforgiving metal put it back to sleep. It still hurts so much, it’s still enough to bring tears to his eyes.

He doesn’t cry anymore. In fact he barely even speaks. He says his prayers and he sings for the Lord of Light in the chapel with the others but other than that he has fallen silent. There’s nothing to say since the other monks got orders to shun him. He’s alone now and he already was lonely before.

Sometimes in dark nights when the autumn storms bring rain and cover the glare of the moon, he lets himself dream of summer days at the shore and when he feels as wicked as he is brave he will watch the fishermen, tan and shirtless in the sun and longs to be held and kissed by one of them. Together they would sail away from this. It’s a childish fantasy but it gives him comfort for a little while.

He’s deeply ashamed of those thoughts in the light of day but in the pitch black dark he can pretend to be someone else, somewhere else. He curls up on his side as best as he can without putting too much strain on his wounds and wraps his arms around himself, pretending to be held.

He’s about to drift off into an uneasy sleep as he hears a key in the lock of the door to his cell. It opens and he sits up, curious and afraid in equal measure. Visits in the dead of night usually don’t bring good news.

The abbot is framed by torchlight and the expression on his lined face is grim. Brock’s heart starts to beat faster as he ponders all the reasons for a visit like this. Will he be tortured again? Will they finally execute him after all those years?

The man doesn’t meet his eyes, nobody does but he motions him with a hand to follow him. As they walk down the many stairs of the tower he hears raised voices that get louder for every step he takes down. They come from the grand hall and Brock starts to shiver despite of the mild summer night.

The shadows cling to the high ceiling and pool in the corners of the vast room. There’s a draft and the lit torches on the walls sputter and their flames dance.

Two of the king’s guard stand before the grand cleric, their white tabards and cloaks are bright in the half dark and their silver armor reflects the low light. He knows one of them. Ser Alric served his father already when Brock was a boy. He’s the only one who does not advert his gaze from Brock’s face. Ser Alric is an imposing man, a full head taller than Brock and still as strong and regal as Brock remembers him. His hair is grey now but his blue eyes are just as kind as they always were.

“My prince”, he says and ignores the sputter of indignation from the high cleric, “we’re here to bring you back to the palace.” Brock is speechless and his heart aches in his chest. A small flame of hope rises before he can stifle it. Is he cured? Does his father, the king want him back?

He steps forward but the abbot stops him with an iron hand on his forearm. “Not so fast, degenerate, first give back what doesn’t belong to you.”

Brock pauses. He’s a monk. Nothing belongs to him but his robes and a crude pendant displaying the symbol of Light wrought from brass. He takes the chain off and hands it to the abbot. The man takes it and holds out his other hand. Now it dawns on him. Humiliated Brock takes off his robes and undergarments. Naked and ashamed he stands on the cold stone floor and covers himself, taking great care just to hold his hands in front of his crotch without actually touching anything.

“The key”, Ser Alric breaks the silence and the abbot practically throws it at him. The knight catches it easily. It’s small key on a thin chain and he puts it in one of the pouches on his belt. Then he takes off his white cloak and moves to drape it over Brock’s shoulders. Brock stops him: “I’m afraid I will paint it red.” Ser Alric puts it on him anyway. “It will serve me as a reminder that I let royal blood be spilt.” With one last withering stare at the grand cleric he turns to his prince again and says: “let’s leave and never return.”

They walk out of the grand gate in silence. It should feel monumental, this moment, but Brock feels oddly numb. The streets are dark and empty and the castle rises on the horizon like a shadow looming over the city. After a while Brock addresses the knight. “Why now? Did something happen to my brother?” His brother is the heir to the golden throne. Brock always was the spare until he was nothing.

“No, your brother is fine. He sired three sons and six daughters”, Ser Alric answers him.

“Why does my father summon me then? I was disinherited when I was a boy.” Brock wants to know, needs to know. “Or are you here to lead me to my death?”

Ser Alric puts a gloved hand on his shoulder and Brock fights the urge to lean into his touch. Then the knight says the words that will change Brock’s life forever. “You’re to be married to keep peace with the Kingdom of the Isles. That’s all the King told me.”

Brock is stunned speechless for a while. He expected to replace the heir or to be led to a pyre to be cleansed by fire before dying but not this. Brock tries to remember the lessons of his childhood. He had learned to fight with sword and shield from the king’s guard, had learned to read and write and had studied maps of the known world and learned about the other kingdoms.

The Kingdom of the Isles is technically their neighbor and they always had good relations with them despite the Islanders being barbarian brutes who served cruel and fickle gods in blasphemous rites.

“Is there war on the horizon if this fails?” Brock has to know. The enormity of this burden might be too much. He can’t hide his true nature and does not want to soil a foreign princess with his touch.

“Yes. Your father turned a blind eye to the missionary efforts of the church too long. He ignored the request of their king too long, who demanded that the missionaries stay away from the isles. They managed to convert some and there was a civil unrest that ended in blood. The kings heir, aptly named Jack the Flayer, decorated the coast with the crucified and skinned bodies of all missionaries and traitors he could find. Then the king of the isles declared the missionary efforts as an act of usurpation and declared war.”

Brock winces. That certainly explains the dire need for a political marriage. “So who is the unlucky princess chosen to marry me?”

Ser Alric laughs bitterly. “You won’t marry one of those sea witches. You will be the bride of Jack the Flayer. He turned your sister down and demanded a son of the king. Your father had not much of a choice. The heir to the golden throne is already married and you’re the only son left. Apparently the King of the Isles remembers sending a gift when you were born. He suggested you as suitable for his son.”

Brock’s heart fills with dread. A marriage between men is unheard of.

“Will you unman me and put me in a dress?” His voice barely trembles but he straightens his back. He will not cry. His pride is all he has left.

“No, the Flayer insisted that he wants you whole. His words were and I’m quoting him ‘I happen to prefer cock over cunt’.” Alric practically spits out those foul words and Brock’s hands automatically form the gesture of the sun in front of his chest.

“It’s a compromise, hard earned. They agreed to leave you intact but you will be referred to as ‘wife’ and ‘princess’ in all official documents of our Kingdom from now”, Ser Alric manages to convey but his handsome face displays the sheer disgust he feels.

The rest of their solemn march they spend in silence.


	2. In silence we yearn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only in the dark Brock dares to take out his hopes and dreams from the shadowy corners of his soul to look at them.

Only in the dark Brock dares to take out his hopes and dreams from the shadowy corners of his soul to look at them. Away from the glare of the sun he feels safe to allow his longing to fill the emptiness inside his chest with bittersweet pain. Here, back in the rooms of his childhood, he allows himself to dream of soft and childish things again like love and belonging and being happy just once.

He had walked through the palace at Ser Alric’s side in a daze. Brock felt like existing in two places at once. Here in his body but the ghost of the boy he once was ran through the hallways, laughing and careless, a lifetime ago. 

It has been thirty years. Thirty wasted years. Everything is exactly the same as he left it. Ser Alric guards his door and Brock sits down on his old bed. It’s overwhelming enough to be back that he just freezes, mind empty and heart heavy in his chest.

A valet disturbs his brooding. He prepares a bath for him, taking great pains not to look at him. It hurts to be shunned but the pain is familiar, too. When he’s done and gone again, Brock casts off his cloak and steps into the hot water. All his still open wounds complain bitterly but he ignores them. In the end he feels cleaner than he has in years.

The face in the fogged over mirror is what disturbs him most. He hasn’t seen his reflection in decades. With trembling hands he wipes the condensation off the polished surface. At first he feels a sense of disconnection. The mirror looks like a framed portrait of a stranger. The face Brock remembers as his own isn’t as sharp and rough as the one looking back at him. His hair is still full and dark, his eyes are still hazel but that’s everything that seems familiar. At first he thinks that he looks like his father now but he has his mother’s nose, her mouth combined with his father’s cheekbones and forehead. 

He puts on the night shirt the valet laid out on his bed and kneels down for his prayer. The floorboards creak under his knees and a memory makes him pause. Brock used to have a box filled with keepsakes. It’s hidden under a loose floorboard under his bed. He lies down on his front and reaches for the spot. Now he’s too big to crawl under the bed but his arms are longer and make up for it.

The floorboard easily comes loose and he reverently lifts the small wooden box out of its hiding place. A thick layer of dust covers it. He wipes it off and lifts the lid. 

It contains everything he has left - a dried flower crown that crumbles to dust as he touches it, a pony figurine carved from soapstone and a ring made from a rusty nail that’s much too small now for him.

Brock remembers the hands that made all those little treasures, hands that fit so perfectly into his own, hands he held in a summer an eternity ago. 

His name was Alistair and he was a stable boy, a year older than Brock. After all those years his smile and his long blonde hair and his grey eyes have faded some in Brock’s memories. But he remembers how wrong and right it felt to let him put a flower crown on his head and kiss him. 

The sky was so open and vast, traveling clouds cast fleeing shadows on the landscape made of rolling hills and wheat fields turning gold under the sun, swaying under the breeze from the sea, they looked like an ocean themselves. Here under the watchful gaze of the Lord of Light, he dared to find love where it was forbidden. 

The summer seemed endless like childhood summers tended to be but it ended in fire and blood. 

Sparks had drifted through the dark night like the fireflies he had chased with Alistair, the heat of the flames was like the touch of hell fire on Brock’s body as they held him, made him watch as they burned his love on a stake. The wood was wet and smoke nearly choked him, through his tears he had watched the agony twisting Alistair’s face into a demonic mask before his skin started to melt. 

The devastation wrought on his heart is still there. A thick scar, badly healed and aching every day. 

Brock isn’t a boy anymore and not exiled any longer. He takes the pony out of the box and puts the rest of his childish treasures to rest again under his bed. The stone warms in his hands as he lays down on his side without praying for the first time since he can remember.

A horse under the bright disc of the sun is the sigil of the kingdom after all. It’s famed for its horses, strong and proud and beautiful. Their coats with their metallic sheen, reflecting the sun splendor. The scripture says, that one of them pulls the carriage of the Lord of Light across the sky.

In the grey morning light he’s summoned to the great hall.   
Dressed in the clothes of a servant, grey, shapeless and austere, he stands before the king, his father.


End file.
